


Hit the Bricks

by Lady_of_Rohan



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkwardness, Blood, Crime Fighting, Detectives, Evidence, First Aid, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Injury, One-Sided Attraction, Sexual Tension, Shooting, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_Rohan/pseuds/Lady_of_Rohan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a drug bust, Roy is injured in the line of duty. Cole lends a hand, and awkwardness ensues. Will Roy ever figure his partner out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit the Bricks

**Author's Note:**

> This was really just an excuse to write some banter and general awkwardness between these two boys which I enjoy so much. And of course, getting poor Roy's hopes dashed. And him bleeding everywhere.

Another day, another stakeout-turned-shootout. Another junkie with his grubby hands full of army surplus morphine and not enough brains to do it covertly.

It was times like these that Roy _truly_ questioned his sanity...

... and Cole's even more so.

Hunkered down behind a shelf full of painting supplies, Roy peeked his head above it and blind-fired a few shots. He'd already ducked again when he heard an agonized yell from across the room, and it echoed in the cramped little warehouse. He couldn't help but smirk. Meanwhile, Cole had abandoned his own cover in favor of running straight into the line of fire.

_The goddamned maniac._

"Go on, Cole!" Roy shouted over the cacophony of gunfire, giving a wave with his free hand. "I've got your back.”

"Stay in cover!" He heard Cole's voice from across the room. "The place is overrun!"

How many people could possibly be crammed into the joint? He swore this town made people stupid. Roy knew the type, and he saw it all the damned time. A bunch of amateurs with plenty of drive, but entirely deficient when it came down to the know-how. While it was the LAPD's job to keep the drugs off the street, the suspect also had possible links to a recent homicide case. Bad news for the guy if Cole got his hands on him. The suspect hadn't seemed particularly guilty prior.... but as evidenced by the half-a-dozen or so men currently shooting at them in the musty old building, it was pretty obvious that it was more than just a drug-bust. They were covering their filthy tracks, and so far, the morphine was nowhere to be found. With any luck, they’d find it and have their link to the murder victim. But they had to survive the onslaught, first…

Roy listened carefully for a lull in the shooting, waiting for the assailants to reload their weapons, and rose from a crouch. He contemplated Cole's advice only briefly before opting against it. What did he know, anyway? His partner was just a greenhorn, and Roy had seen far worse. He didn't need _him_ around to tell him what to do.

Holding onto his hat with one hand and his gun in the other, Roy side-stepped, leaving cover momentarily to let a few bullets fly. One of the men went down, clutching at his chest as he slumped to the ground. Roy had barely pulled the trigger again when another thug appeared out of the corner of his eye. Bullets flew in his direction, a few of them audibly bouncing off the metal paint cans, dangerously near to him. Roy scrambled for safety, and a moment later, he felt an intense pressure against his thigh, followed by the strange warmth of heat radiating. He assumed he'd bumped into something in the shadows and continued firing until the other man landed with an audible _thud_ upon the concrete floor.

When Roy made a break for cover once again, he found himself slipping sideways, his knees buckling beneath him. Something dripping on the floor? He looked down to see that the paint cans providing his cover had been punctured during the shootout. The ground was a kaleidoscope of colors... vibrant spatters of blue, white, and yellow splotches everywhere. He leaned against the nearby shelf for support, swaying for a moment before he lowered himself to the ground again. Thank god he didn't slip and fall on his ass. Happy to be settled in a seated position with his back against the shelf, he noticed the bright red spatter on the floor and the few cans of paint that had fallen over. That hadn't been there a moment ago. It took him a few moments to realize that the disrupted paint cans included no red hues ... and his brow knitted in confusion.

That's when it hit him.

The red wasn't paint at all.

It was blood.

_His blood._

_Fuck._

Roy glanced down at this right leg, seeing the torn-up material and the deep crimson seeping through his gray pants. His pistol forgotten for the time-being, he clutched at the rapidly bleeding hole in his thigh and grit his teeth as the pain set in.

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ--!" Roy cursed, balling forward with his head between his knees. With his eyes screwed shut, he waited for the pain to subside. When he opened them again, the pool of blood was accumulating on the floor beneath him, mingling with the colorful paint like an artist's canvas. God, they'd _really_ nailed him.

For a moment, he contemplated moving, but figured that would be a very unwise choice in the midst of a shootout. So he remained ducked behind the shelves, keeping his leg bent and occasionally glancing around for any signs of imminent danger... or signs of his partner. Where the hell had Cole run off to, anyway?

A couple of minutes passed with bullets whizzing past him. The more he thought about the situation, the more he could feel the anger swelling within his chest. Roy was livid that he'd got himself injured, ruined his 200 dollar suit... but most of all, he was certain that Cole wouldn't help matters much. _"You should be more careful,"_ he'd likely scold, which would be ironic coming from the man running wildly into the middle of the riot.

Thoughts of Cole had barely crossed his mind when a familiar voice rang out through the darkness, accompanied by several more shots being fired. The voice was determined and surprisingly enough, there was a hint of concern laced to it.

"Roy! Where are you?"

"Over here, Cole," said Roy, speaking up as loudly as he could. His voice carried through the warehouse in a disjointed sort of way.

The click-clack of dress shoes were heard growing louder as Cole approached, and soon his partner had arrived with all the determinedness characteristic of a soldier. Roy half-expected trumpets to begin sounding, with the way Mr. Golden Boy carried himself.

Cole was kneeling beside him in an instant, his blue eyes scanning him up and down. "What happened?" he asked, perhaps too calmly as he removed his hat.  His palms hovered over Roy's leg, assessing the damage.

"I fell during dance-lessons," Roy scoffed. "What the hell does it look like?!"

"All right, let me have a look. Just stay calm." Cole looked directly into his eyes as he said the words. Must have been some military tactic. The whole 'look me in the face as I tell you how bad it is' maneuver. Huh. Strange way of male bonding... and the funny thing was, it actually seemed to work. Still, Roy suddenly had a very vivid image of Cole saying precisely the same thing to a fallen comrade as their spleen was hanging out. Just like that, the brief sense of relief had dissipated.

"Calm, right." Roy rolled his eyes. "I assure you, I'm the epitome of-- _oww!_ Careful!"

Without warning, Cole had prodded at the bullet wound, causing Roy to wince. He seemed unfazed by the fact that he'd hurt him and looked up for only a moment with a stern expression. The guy really needed to work on his bedside manner.

"Try and sit still for me, Roy."

Roy growled, jaw clenched as he watched his partner's hands stain red to match his own.  "Easier said than done," he mumbled. "So what's the damage, Doctor Phelps? Am I gonna make it?"

"It’s through and through. We need to get you to a hospital."

Against his will, Roy's stomach gave an unpleasant flip. If there was one thing he hated, it was hospitals. Okay, so he hated a lot of things, but hospitals were certainly on the list.  Count him out. Working Vice and having weekly chats with the cadavers in the morgue didn't make it any more appealing.... and sometimes, Roy couldn't help but morbidly imagine himself on one of those cold, metal slabs with an ID tag slipped around his toe.

"Listen," said Roy, with an involuntary shudder. "I think I'd rather bleed out than trust myself under the care of some scalpel-wielding two-bit."

"We don't have time, Roy. You're losing a lot of blood."

Roy did his best to remain still, forcing himself to relax as Cole began to apply a steady pressure directly upon his injury in attempt to get it to clot. It hurt. _A lot._.. but Roy managed to keep a straight face, closing his eyes. He prided himself on having a decent poker face, and he wasn't about to go cryin' about a little gunshot wound in front of his partner. It seemed forever that they sat there, and the silence was occasionally interrupted by the shootout occurring in the background.

His palms pressing against his leg a bit more firmly, Cole was shaking his head in frustration, his mouth dimpling into a frown.

"This is no good," he said, more to himself than anyone. A moment later, and Cole was squatting over one of Roy's legs, with his hands pressed one over the other and his palm flat up against the crook of Roy's inner thigh.

To say it was a surprise to find Cole's hands against his crotch would be the understatement of the year. Roy gave an unintentional twitch, scooting backwards slightly and upsetting some of the items on the shelf behind them. His heart was suddenly pounding in his ears. Meanwhile, Cole remained completely unfazed by the fact that he was pressing below Roy's belt. The effect, embarrassingly enough, was all the same... and Roy's trousers were left feeling uncomfortably tight.

"Be gentle with me, Phelps, it's my first time," Roy deadpanned, hoping the joke would clear the air a bit. He glanced to the side, refusing to make eye contact.

"I'm using a pressure point," said Cole flatly, at last showing signs of annoyance.

"That what they're callin' it nowadays?"

At that, Cole went silent, as he often did when Roy was trying to lighten the mood. His sense of humor always fell on deaf ears with his partner, so he couldn't really be offended. If Cole noticed the fact that Roy was half-hard, he chose to ignore it and continued to dutifully stanch the bleeding in his leg. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, Roy watched as Cole straightened up a bit, lifting his pinstriped vest slightly as his hands dipped low to reach for his belt buckle.

"Phelps," Roy said, with an eyebrow raised. "Now is _really_ not the time."

"All right, here's what we’re going to do..." Again, Cole chose to ignore Roy's commentary. He slipped his belt from his trousers and deftly looped it around Roy's thigh, pulling it tight in an improvised tourniquet. For the first time since Cole had arrived, Roy frowned. It must have been worse than he thought. "It's too dangerous in here. I'm going to get you outside and we're going to wait there until backup arrives."

Roy found himself feeling skeptical as he shook his head. There were at least six more armed men roaming around the place... the suspect included. It'd be a miracle if they escaped without further harm. He didn't know about Cole, but one bullet was more than enough for him.

 "That's a pretty gutsy move, Cole. You plan on getting yourself shot up, too?"

Cole offered a brief, yet somehow reassuring smile. "I've been through worse. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be, partner..."

"Come on, help me out..."

 With that, Cole recovered his hat and stood carefully, hefting Roy from beneath his underarms. The pain was bordering on unbearable. Roy leaned heavily against Cole for support while his head spun in a wild haze of colors and muffled sound. Thankfully, Cole kept him steady, slipping an arm around his waist and slinging one of Roy's arms around his neck.

Roy didn't have time to enjoy the picture-perfect moment as the warmth of Cole's body was pressed up against him. They took a few unsteady steps as more gunfire broke out... illuminating the room in lightning-like flashes.  They both ducked in unison, and Roy swore that a bullet whizzed right past his ear. _Damn it._ Too close for comfort. Cole quickened their pace, half-carrying Roy as he limped beside him and dragged his injured leg. There was a way cleared, straight down the center of the room between aisles of supply shelves. Roy could only hope their luck held out just a little longer.

"I've got you," said Cole, giving his waist a squeeze but keeping his eyes forward. Whether it was simply to tighten his grip around him, or to be reassuring... Roy couldn't tell.  But he didn’t mind one bit. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah... another fine day in paradise," he said, thankful that his fedora was partially obscuring his features. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

"Hang tight, we're almost there."

"Wish we coulda kept a few of those syrettes right about now..." he managed, giving a half-hearted smirk.

Unsurprisingly, Cole was less than pleased.

"That's not funny, Roy."

"Fine, some dope, then. Only found about 50 pounds of it..."

Even though Cole uttered a noise of disapproval, Roy saw that the corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. The two had unearthed more dope and illegal reefer than any man could possibly fathom.

They were nearly at the exit when Roy caught a figure moving in the darkness, watching shadows move out of his peripheral vision. Roy squinted, his eyes adjusting just enough to see one of the men fidgeting with a locked exit in the far corner of the room. In his line of work, he never forgot a face. He recognized their profile and their tall, lanky figure as the suspect immediately.

"Hey, Cole!" said Roy, in a harsh whisper, more from the pain than anything. "That creep's getting away!"

There was a definite flicker of struggle on Cole's boyish features, but he shook his head with the most austere of expressions.

"No, I promised I'd get you out of here, so that's what I intend to do."

It would be a lie to say that Roy wasn't speechless. He had fully expected Cole to drop him to the ground and run after the fleeing man... but for some reason, he hadn't. Apparently, there were some strange exceptions to Cole's rule-led lifestyle and by-the-book nature. And at the moment, Roy was happy to be one of them... for whatever reason.

A few moments later, and they arrived safely outside as Cole palmed the doorknob and they both slipped carefully through. The full, vibrant light of the mid-afternoon sun was blinding, making Roy's head spin yet again. He directed his gaze downwards in attempt to shield away some of the sunlight. Again, he groaned. Bright red rivulets were dripping down his leg, looking all the more startling now that they were outside. Phelps didn't look much better, as Roy's blood was all over his hands as well as his suit. It looked like both of them had just paid a visit to a slaughterhouse. The thought made Roy shudder.

They made their way across the parking lot as quickly as they could, the sun beating down upon them, and Cole paused once they'd gotten far enough for it to be considered safe.

"Do you want to wait in the car?" Cole asked as they paused, and gestured across the street to Roy's prized Cadillac, its bright red color matching them nicely.

"And get blood all over the seats?" If he hadn't been somewhat incapacitated, Roy would have smacked him upside the head. "Phelps, what are you hopped up on? How about we wait over there instead?"

Roy nodded his head towards an alleyway on the other side of the lot, separating two nearby buildings adjacent to the warehouse. It looked secluded enough that they wouldn't be pursued... and if they were, there was enough junk scattered around to provide decent cover.

With a nod, Cole led them a few more unsteady steps across the lot and into the alley. He lowered Roy to the ground, propping him up against the brick wall. He nodded grimly, his palm clamping down on Roy's shoulder for a lingering moment as Roy stared up at him. "I'm going to make a call to be sure they send an ambulance. Sit tight."

"Hey, hold up a minute!"

As Cole started to walk away, Roy found that his fist was clutching at the bottom of Cole's pant leg before he could stop himself. His partner looked a bit perplexed, but he did nothing to dissuade Roy from grabbing at him and preventing him from going. Their eyes met, blue against blue… and Roy let go.

"What is it?"

"I wanna talk about this."

"Talk about _what,_ Roy?"

"Why you're letting them off the hook so easily."

"I'm not letting them off the hook. You're injured."

"Hah... like that makes a difference."

"What are you implying?"

" _Tccht_. Nevermind. Listen, my point is... you don't let _anything_ get in the way of closing a case. What changed?”

Cole stood, not quite looking Roy in the eye. The man had the sort of stance that could be equated to a Greek statue, just as stoic, just as sincere... and just as unmoving. It was particularly apparent from the upwards angle that Roy was viewing him from. The only thing remotely close to any sort of expression was the way Cole's lips were forming a near-perfect straight line... and the furrows that had formed between his eyebrows. He was thinking about something... and thinking hard.

Several beats of silence passed, in which he actually thought that Phelps might reveal something dark and sordid from his past... any hint of personal information, maybe something a little war-torn and ragged. Perhaps, how seeing a fallen comrade made him choose differently in the line of duty... perhaps, how he cared about some things more than himself and his own inflated ego... or perhaps... how he cared for his partner...

 But all Cole uttered was: "The bricks."

Roy blinked. _"Come again?"_

"The bricks, Roy..."

Cole's lips were parted as he ran a hand along the wall that Roy was leaning against... and Roy craned his neck to see what he was doing over his shoulder, squinting into the sunlight. He didn't see his point, but then again, that could potentially be blamed on the blood loss and the constant pain in his leg.

"You thinkin' of putting me out of my misery?" Roy asked, managing a slight chuckle that came out as more of a cough. "Because a coup de grace might be kind of a relief..."

"No, these have been removed recently."

"All right, Nancy Drew, how can you tell?"

"Because they've been painted over." His fingertip was tapping thoughtfully against the side of the building in one of those nearly-endearing idiosyncrasies that Roy had grown so used to seeing.

Roy was about to reply with a scathing remark regarding the irrelevance of the landowner's exterior decorating skills when his mind flashed back to his hiding place in the warehouse. _Paint cans everywhere._ Well, the evidence certainly matched up. Though he hadn't remembered any red paint cans scattered about the place. Just the sight of his own blood.

Phelps could be onto something, but it could also be a coincidence, as was oft to happen while working Vice. Same dope, different day... or so Roy said. But Roy's theory was soon proven wrong

Cole was able to effortlessly pull one of the loose bricks from the wall, nails grating against it as some of the mortar crumbled and landed on Roy's shoulder. He brushed it off in annoyance, watching as another brick was pulled... and another... until there was a pile sitting beside Roy, laid there neatly by Phelps. The pulled bricks soon revealed a cubby hollowed out in the side of the building... the perfect niche for hiding one's small fortune of morphine. With fingers twitching excitedly, Cole hesitated for a moment before reaching into the hole and sure enough, pulled a box full of syrettes from within it.

Roy shook his head, his tone flat as Cole held it up for display and brushed off the dust and debris. "Well, I'll be damned."

"See?" Cole looked hardly able to contain his excitement as he held that box, like a kid on Christmas morning.  "I knew it, Roy. Everything happens for a reason."

"That's wonderful, Phelps. Really wonderful. I'll remember your words of wisdom the next time I take a fucking bullet in order for you to conveniently locate evidence."

But Roy's words apparently fell on deaf ears, as Cole was looking far too pleased with himself to pay any mind to Roy's plight. He was grinning like an idiot, probably thinking of the glory that would come with getting to the bottom of yet another morphine theft, as well as getting his fellow detective to safety. Roy could see the headlines in bold ink already. It made his stomach flip.

"Go on, make the call." Roy said, exasperated. He waved his hand in an unenthusiastic sort of way. "I know you want to. Just do me a favor, Cole."

"Yes?"

"If the goddamned reporters come anywhere near me, someone's getting their teeth knocked in."

"Fine. No reporters." Cole bent low to offer a rather awkward pat on his shoulder, his expression sympathetic. "Sit tight and relax. I'll be right back."

"Yeah, yeah..."

Just like that, Cole was crossing the parking lot and towards Roy's car to radio Central. Roy watched him all the while, the way he carried himself with a newfound spring in his step and a glint in his eyes... and meanwhile Roy was bleeding on the pavement.

Typical.

_"11K calling KGPL. We've got an officer down at the factory district, corner of Sunset and Bronson . Shots fired and suspect has fled. Send backup and an ambulance. I repeat, send backup and an ambulance immediately."_

He should have been more bitter, angrier, more frustrated... and he damn well tried to be, but somehow, he was left with a morbid sense of curiosity overpowering all else. Sure, Cole had spunk, had drive, and that was undeniable, but it didn't mean he understood him any more. Phelps was a mystery, with walls put up stronger than any brick, and painted over in so many layers, it was impossible to scratch the surface. One day, Roy was determined to know what made him tick, what little stash of secrets he kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Maybe that made him crazy along with Phelps for even _wanting_ to know. He supposed he'd just have to get used to questioning his sanity...

The funny thing was... he wasn't sure he minded it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
